Late Summer Shimmy

Saturday was a raggedy day.  A rehearsal for things to come.  The winds were up.  The rain misting between Haar and spritz that faded before hitting the ground.  Late summer trees, in their no-nonsense, deep, dark greens, caught on, winking their pale leaf undersides, “We’re in”.  On the hills opposite, are several slopes which are farmed, their colours affirming the seasons.  The deep port purple of winter furrows, the lime green stubble of spring, early summer waves of willow green roistering-doistering with the sea breezes, dancing-in the golden times.  At one with the kelpy waves.  It’s as if the trees have darkened down in veneration – Demeter, the star is coming, don’t outshine her.  Instead, enhance her, circle her, in devotional chorus, suitably dressed in the greens of toffs, with tawny flashes of bladderwrack and of the coming Autumn.  Suddenly, the corn is luminous and gold.  Soon, it will blush a golden-pink rosiness that is so beguiling, all ancient beliefs of the living corn come true, and you’ll want to run into it, barefoot, arms akimbo, jingling.  The wind swirls the wheat culms, not yet dried into straw.  The tassels of their spike heads whirl and nod the dizzying ecstasy of spinning gold.  Alchemy of transformation.  Humility of perfect harmony.  Each aspect knowing its part to play, sun, rain, sea breeze, soil, worms, the seed.  The farmer at one with it all, the weather, the timing, being in and of the cycle as much as the seed itself.  And I see my hope coming back.  My faith, to stop worrying and just run in, barefoot, arms akimbo, jingling.  Plant some seeds, smell the earth, get out there, start something, start anything, be scrappy, fail, fall, get back up again, make a mess, but for God’s sake, just start!  And shimmy on.